I think I'll have a flutter,
But soon I need to bounce,
Maybe sickly like the nutter,
my thoughts will shed an ounce,
I'm ticking over the issue,
in rhythm to the sound,
considering this tissue,
to which I'm worldly bound.
Pondering the flow,
where this cycle may conclude,
take me and I go,
completing just a prelude.
Dark rusty stains,
will be my epitaph,
leaving no ill gains,
but things to make one laugh.
An empty desolate awakening,
brought to me this week,
its hardly being taken in,
but my mortal form is weak.
Shameful and disgusting,
this unkempt shell of mine,
for I was far too trusting,
of old father time.